Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘your best chance of cracking this case is if it gets lots of publicity. But for me to get it into the paper, I’m going to need your help.’

I shifted uncomfortably in the screwed-down, plastic seat. For a split second, I recognised my eye glinting in the knife’s reflection.

‘I need you to tell me all you know, and tell me the girl’s ID when you get it.’

‘Because …’

He placed the gleaming knife down beside the fork.

‘The more I know, the better chance I have of getting a good show in the paper. The better the show, the more likely I get a call from someone with information which I can then pass to you. Think about it … if you work with me on this, we might just get you back on a murder squad.’

‘What do you get, Fintan?’

‘A scoop. Let’s just say my gut instinct is telling me that this girl was no skanky tom. In fact, I’d wager she’s an actress. If she’s an actress of any note, this story will go big. Very big. It’s all about celebs these days, even minor ones. That’s what sells papers.’

I tried not to look shocked or impressed. But my mind was throwing bouquets at his feet; how in hell had he figured this out?

‘What makes you think she was an actress?’

‘I’ll give you a clue,’ he said.

‘I don’t do riddles, Fint, you know that.’

‘Okay, well, if you change your mind: A black flower, six letters. Sounds like the surname of your ex.’

The gruff waiter dropped my fried eggs with such ferocity that they scrambled on impact. He informed Fintan that his order would be ‘many more minutes’. Clearly the culinary ambitions of the Star didn’t stretch to the baking of potatoes or the sourcing of real tomatoes.

Or, for that matter, to the cleaning of knives and forks. Under duress, I agreed to examine my cutlery before tucking in. Sure enough, both bore the microscopic debris of previous meals, including a rock-hard yellow speck on the inner rim of the fork’s central prong that had to be congealed egg.

‘They’d have to fucking carbon date that,’ said Fintan.

‘It’s probably older than the chicken who laid it,’ I agreed.

He handed me his polished cutlery, but the damage had been done. I pushed the plate away.

‘Happy now?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘If you look at anything closely enough, for long enough, you’ll find its dirty little secret. The thing is, Donal, without publicity there’s far less chance that they’ll catch this woman’s killer. So why don’t you help me, just this once?’

‘I don’t know, Fintan …’

‘For her sake. I mean come on, you don’t want her winding up in some clerical bin like the others, do you? Or was that all just talk?’

As he re-appropriated his sparkling cutlery and – when it finally arrived – picked at his bespoke meal, I unloaded everything that Edwina had told me. Well, almost everything.

I held back the detail about the strands of human hair found between her thumb and finger. I didn’t want this to become common knowledge; it could yet prove our secret insurance policy, our suspect-clincher.

I concluded with the pathologist’s certainty that the victim hadn’t worked as a street hooker, news he greeted with unbearable self-satisfaction. I could tell the rest didn’t really matter to him now. So long as she wasn’t ‘a desperate skank’, he could ‘get the story away’.

As he put it: ‘If she’s a looker and not a hooker, it’s a double-page spread.’

‘So her murder now merits a story?’

He frowned, genuinely perplexed that I didn’t view the world through the twisted scope of his news desk.

‘The thing is, when a prostitute is murdered, no one is surprised. None of our readers relate to it because it’s happened to a prossie, not to a normal woman. Prostitutes and pimps and crack are not part of our readership’s world. It’s different when a “good” woman is murdered … that creates a threat to all women. That sells papers. All I need now is a sit-down with the parents and selects.’

‘Selects?’

‘That’s the trade term for family photos. Some less scrupulous hacks have been known to swipe them from the mantelpieces of grieving relatives. I know one woman who always asks to use the upstairs loo so she can perform a quick sweep of the bedrooms.’

I sighed. ‘And now I’m aiding and abetting the same scurrilous press.’

‘Hey, I don’t do stuff like that.’ He glared at me, wounded. ‘Jesus, give me some credit.’

He pushed his virtually untouched meal away and lit another cigarette. I cringed: ‘You are aware that Sweeney Todd has access to sharp implements from the kitchen?’

He didn’t even hear me. ‘The question now is, why did they dump her body here? Clearly they’re sending a message to someone. But to who? There’s a bigger play here. Much bigger.’

My pager buzzed.

Below a mobile number, the message read: Hi Donal. Victim ID confirmed. Please call, Zoe.

I grabbed Fintan’s fat mobile and dialled.

‘Hi Zoe, Donal Lynch, we just met at the crime scene.’

‘Hi Donal. Turns out this girl was on the Met’s Missing Person file. We’re pretty certain we know who she is.’

‘Wow, that was quick.’

Fintan’s eyebrows shot skyward.

‘We haven’t confirmed it yet but she has a very distinctive rose tattoo on the back of her shoulder with her initials beneath it. And there’s a scar that matches too. The height, weight, it all tallies. You got a pen?’

Fintan’s notebook and biro stood to attention.

‘Yes. Shoot.’

‘Elizabeth Phoebe Little, Date of Birth 29/7/70. Single. Originally from Armley in Leeds,’ I repeated after her as Fintan whipped out his laptop and inserted a floppy disc.

‘The most recent address we have for her is 14a Princess Road, Richmond. No previous convictions. Profession: Actress.’

‘Actress eh?’ I said, as Fintan’s smugometer almost exploded.

‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her,’ I added, in an attempt to puncture his euphoria.

‘Me neither. That’s all we’ve got so far.’